l is for
by sakikkususen
Summary: Her heart has always been a little fickle. / silver, lyra
1. leech seed

The doctor before me is, no doubt, a good man, with many medical degrees for human and Pokémon treatment both, an old friend of Lyra's from way back when she attended Trainer School in Cherrygrove. He's an open man, with a round, peachy face and many years' worth of laughter etched into the corners of his eyes.

But right now, the good, open man that I've had amicable chats with over coffee at Lyra's class reunions wears a tragic expression, lines of laughter turned down quietly, solemnly.

"You're being too quiet," I snap. Lyra is still in Room 1313, three floors too far. Without her by my side I feel as though I'm missing something important, and my stomach drops. My fingers itch to take her hand in mine, knowing that I'll feel her smaller fingers hug the flat of my palm to hers.

"Silver," the doctor gasps out after another short pause. "Silver, I'm so sorry."

My blood runs cold and the grip that I hold on my knees slackens. "What? Sorry for what?"

"It's, uh, coronary heart disease." Lyra's old friend has tears gathered in his eyes but he attempts to stay professional and uncaring, ending up with a wet, rigid face. He looks like he's been shot in the chest. "It… doesn't look good, at all."

The pain of crescent moons carved into my palms reigns over everything else, and I can't hear anything except for the muffled words of the good doctor and blood pounding in my ears.

"How long?" I choke after a long while. "How long do we have?"

(The doctor makes no comment that I have said we. We is for how long we both have left together, because Lyra will not be alone when she dies. I will die with her, but I won't die in the same way. She will wilt. I will wither.)

"Two weeks, maybe. On the outside."

"What's going to happen to her?" My throat is dry — scratchy. I feel oddly hollow.

Lyra's old friend coughs into his fist and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Aphasia, if she moves too often, and chest pain." He pauses to take in a sharp breath. "Heart attacks shouldn't come as a surprise."

I stand to make my way upstairs, the chair screeching on the tile loudly, but the doctor grabs my arm, pulling me back. I turn back to Lyra's old friend and try not to lash out. My hands twitch, ushering metallic rivers to my fingertips. I need to get to Lyra.

"Silver, I'm so, so sorry. We can get her a room at the hospital. We can make her comfortable until the end."

The end. The end of Lyra. _Oh, Mew._ My eyes gloss over and I push away from the good doctor.

"It's fine," I bite out, and turn away from Lyra's old friend bitterly. "We're fine."

* * *

**a/n** Feraligatr autocorrects to Federalist, 100% done


	2. lava plume

On the walk back to our lodging at the Saffron Pokémon Center Lyra is quiet. I hold her hand as tightly as I can without hurting her.

She's wearing her regular clothes that she's worn since we were teenagers; the sense of sameness that surrounds her sends a pain through my chest that's foreign and cold. _She's the same,_ I reason. I look at her bunched shoulders, her hand in mine, her clumsy feet that trip and stumble not on country roads and grass but the pavement beneath our city-turned feet. _She's different._

We arrive at the Pokémon Center and stand at the base of the stairs. Lyra stares up them, troubled, and I know that she's frightened, even if she can't register it. Her eyes are big, her body small. There's so much to do when anything could mean the end.

There's so much left to do.

"Silver?" she starts nervously, turning to me with a jolt. Her wide eyes burn, like the flames on Typhlosion's back. "I… I don't want to go through any of that." Her fists are clenched in a show of anger, and I don't blame her one bit, because I've always been angry at the littlest things, and she's always been so complacent. She deserves this feeling. She deserves to be angry at the unfairness of it all.

"And I don't want to see you go through it," I tell her. She nods and bites her lip and it's obvious that's yet another worry of hers. "Don't worry. Okay?" I know that my words won't keep her from worrying. Her worrying about me, about my father, about Gold and her mother and our Pokémon will kill her before the AMI in her chest gets the chance to. "You don't need to worry. I've got you."

She nods, wets her lips, and takes the first step, and when she stumbles, I catch her.

* * *

**a/n** wow I sure love ruining Lyra's life


	3. low sweep

Lyra lives and breathes adventure and battling and tending to Pokémon at ridiculous hours of the night. And she's done it all, for years, before she was ever supposed to be mature enough.

We got the call yesterday. It will only speed up. It will only get worse.

Battling and exploring has been her life for years. Now, she's on her bed, stroking the ruff of Umbreon's back, nothing left to do. Her hands are pale and shaky and her laughing voice tapers off weakly after a few seconds.

"Are you sure about this?" My voice cracks and dies away, like a radio going out of signal.

Lyra listens closely like she always does. I know she hears me, ever hyperaware. Her fingers knot in the thick fur on her lap anxiously, and she glances over, lips parted to speak, but her face tells me all I need to know. Her throat bobs and, shamefully, she turns back to stare at the blue-ringed Pokémon, who flicks her tail and nudges closer.

It's not an attack, but it isn't much better. Her throat's run dry, and she can hardly find the energy to speak. To try and calm the erratic beating of my heart is impossible, at this point. Every second is a gamble.

I hold my breath as she takes a long drag from the glass of water at her side. Again, her mouth opens, and this time she manages a breathy, "Silver?"

"Yeah?"

She wets her lips and her toes grip the carpet loosely. "Christmas is coming up pretty soon, isn't it."

I nod, even though it's nearly two months away. "Do you want anything?"

"I want to go home, to meet up. To talk." She smiles shakily. It's raw and genuine and I know that she wants it more than anything in the world. "Is that okay?"

I don't need to be able to read her as well as I do to know what she's implying. "Of course. Of course that's okay." I can't breathe. I'm going to fall apart, losing her like this.

Lyra grins and fishes her phone out of her pocket to flick through the numbers she has dialed in and selects those of our combined friends and family.

The list is forgivingly short. Red. Blue. Green. Gold. Father. Lyra's mother. They are all close and they know what's going on, but they all act as though they don't. If not for Lyra, then for who?

"I hope they can all come," she hums after she's sent out the message. "It would be nice, you know? To see everyone."

The unspoken _one last time_ lurks behind her words, and it strikes me that she thinks to any of them would not doing everything possible to make it.

I settle for ruffling her hair like I would have if none of this had happened. I don't tell her that I love her more than anything and that if Christmas wishes came true, I would wish that I could make all of this stop.

* * *

**a/n** that otp tho


	4. lunar dance

We're back in New Bark, staying at Lyra's mother's house instead of the apartment we've been living in in Ecruteak for the past few years. She is strong and does her best to act normal for her beloved daughter, but she can't hold back her silent, firm-shouldered tears when Lyra stumbles and nearly falls down the stairs on the way up to her room. Even though she protests with vehemence that makes all of us smile, I carry her up, and Typhlosion and Feraligatr aren't far behind.

Lyra looks around, taking in the fact that her bedroom is, essentially, the same. She has her mother to thank for always keeping her room in order for when we visit. But soon she won't need to any more. The thought makes a pang thrum in my chest, and my eyes burn.

After Lyra gets a good look at her room, takes up the photograph of her and Gold and me at the National Park, and plucks it out of its frame to put it in her pocket, we go back downstairs. Immediately, she grins and leads me to the utility closet beneath the stairs. We both heft up a box of Christmas decorations and drop them onto the couch in the living room.

For the next few hours, we weave tinsel into the window curtain racks and around the doorways of the main floor, hanging baubles from lamps and door handles and bells around the corners of the room. The fireplace is lit and we go outside to tinsel the doorway.

None of the neighbors ask why we're decorating for Christmas in October. I know that Lei has spread the word, and the neighborhood is silent.

"It never gets any easier," she, strong-jawed and wire-haired, tells me later as we sit at the kitchen table. Lyra is upstairs, taking a bath and enjoying the hot water before we all head to bed. The television is off, the radio on, and Professor Oak's channel is white noise, fodder to lessen the strain in the lulls of our not-so-conversation. "Watching them be taken from you."

* * *

**a/n** I'm actually finishing a story, whaat? wow it's a miracle


	5. leer

The stairs are unusually cold. A gust of wind bursts through the door to Lyra's room and an inhuman yowl rings through the house. It distantly occurs to me that Lyra's mother is out getting groceries, and most of the Pokémon are out in the yard, enjoying the cloudy weather. In a haze, I start up the stairwell, one hand on the railing.

Her door hangs open, swinging on its hinges from the breeze. I move a little faster, steaming mug still clenched between too-tight fingers. My feet tremble on each step, darting forward a little too fast to keep my balance. "Lyra, are you okay?"

I stop dead in my tracks, hands limp at my sides. "Hey." My voice dies off, replaced with a small, unsure tone. "Lyra? Hey — are you okay?"

She lies face down on the hardwood, elbow and legs propped up behind her at odd angles. Her face is half-hidden by her hair and Umbreon's pelt, and her back is still.

"Lyra?"

No response — a few fingers twitch, and I can hear the shuffle of paws on wood. Umbreon sits on her haunches, poised like Death, and stares me in the eye.

* * *

**a/n** eyy


	6. lock-on

I start toward her at a sprint.

The cold, sudden panic of fear grips me, and it feels like the distance between us stretches longer instead of growing smaller. On the way I find myself kicking scuffs on the hallway floor, sweat streaking down my temple. "Lyra!" My voice raises in fear.

She still doesn't move.

My toe catches on a dip in the planks and I trip, falling forward, landing hard on my chin. The mug falls and skids out of my reach, breaking with a shriek, and I can taste metal strong on my tongue, scalding liquid on my fingers. I claw forward, pulling myself halfway up and still running all the while.

I hurry to her side and drop to my knees, and Umbreon slinks away to sit in the window sill.

Grabbing Lyra by the shoulders, I roll her onto her back and lean over her, shaking her slightly, at first. "Lyra?" Then I shake harder. "Lyra? Wake up." I tap her face and slap her once, but her head lolls to the side limply. "C'mon, Lyra, stop this." My voice cracks. "This isn't funny." I twist to look around the deserted room desperately.

Another moment passes, and I bend down to press an ear to her chest, counting the seconds, keeping an eye on her face all the while. I listen for her heartbeat as I try to calm my own.

Absolutely nothing.

I tilt her head back, plug her nose, press our mouths flush, and breathe.

* * *

**a/n** story time: i made this apple crisp like two years ago and it was the worst thing I've ever eaten


	7. luster purge

The hospital smells like morphine and death. It's well past visiting hours, nearing two in the morning, but the nurse couldn't bring herself to throw me out. Her mother is still out running errands, in the next town over.

She doesn't have a clue. Somehow, that makes things easier.

One of the neighbors had been out for a walk, heard me panicking, and called for an ambulance. They revived her, and I rode along — holding her hand — all the way to the hospital.

We got lucky, but barely.

She's the palest I've ever seen her, skin dry, eerily smooth. Two tubes feeding her oxygen are taped beneath her nostrils, her finger clipped with a pulse monitor. The vein running along the inside of her elbow is stuck with an IV that seeps clear liquid.

Lyra's entire body is deflated, lacking energy and drive. She breathes lightly, as though taking in too much air will make her collapse entirely, and she's hardly able to move her limbs. The sight of her terrifies me.

What has she gone through — the rough and tumble girl I fought with at ten years old, who took down Rocket and fights like a hero? Seeing her this way, tattered and lying in a hospital cot, my heart sinks.

"Why won't you let them try the operation?" I ask quietly, squeezing the flat of her palm to mine.

She closes her eyes and she looks so, so tired. "You saw the file. The chances of it being successful, this far along… and a heart transplant is costly — even with insurance, it will ruin any chance of financial stability." A pause; a breath; a small, aching cough. I hold her hand a little bit tighter. "We would be in debt the rest of our lives."

"It's just money, Lyra," I say desperately, grappling at straws, by this point. "We can make it work — it can be replaced! But you…"

I leave off at that, letting my words hang in the air for a while. She looks away entirely. "We both know how this ends, Silver. We've hardly got anything left, except maybe the apartment, and there's no way I could let you use that."

Bitterly, I swallow what words get caught in my throat. I manage to breathe, "We can make this work. We can get you a new heart."

"Silver," she starts firmly, but has to take a few moments to consider her words. "I don't want you to base your happiness on odds." Her lips curve into a downtrodden smile. "I knew something was wrong, and I didn't do anything. I wish I had." I can feel the _I'm sorry_ in the limp curve of her fingers around my hand, the way she holds on with all the energy she has to spare.

My chin ducks to my chest. "You — you don't need to apologize." I rub the flat of her hand with my thumb and glance off, shaking. "This, though — I just don't — I don't understand."

Lyra waits, ever patient. I reach forward to push a few strands of her hair behind her ear, feeling it brush against my fingers. A cold, confused laugh forces its way up from my throat. Her eyes duck as she stares at her lap, lying below sterile white sheets.

"I thought I would spend the rest of my life with you," I tell her softly. "I really did."

I lean down to rest my head on her legs, and she hums quietly, placing a hand on my head. "I guess I'm lucky, then, aren't I?" she replies evenly.

Lyra's hand is so cold. "I don't get it," I tell her.

Her fingers nestle into my hair and stay there, sitting atop the curve of my temple contentedly, while she looks into my eyes steadily. "I get to spend the rest of my life with you."

It takes more than it should to swallow the sobs that threaten to breach the surface. "You don't have to do this. You — don't deserve this, you know that."

Tersely, her head dips, neck craned so low I can hardly see her face. Her smile is ragged. "Lots of people don't deserve things, Silver."

The sheets don't feel like the ones in our room, thick and plush and warm, smelling like flowers and sweat and the wild. They're thin, and cold, and beneath them all I can feel are her pale, motionless legs. "That's a funny thing, isn't it," I start, with a squeeze to her hand. "I figure I don't deserve you."

"You think so?" Her hand in my hair slacks as she draws it up, and her fingers twisted with mine draw closer, hugging my palm to hers.

I can hear her cough into her elbow, hollowly, tightly, as though she's trying to keep something in.

Lyra sighs as the room falls silent again, arm dropping back to her side. The inside of the joint is stained cherry. I tilt my head and stare at her profile, away from the sight of it. "Maybe you're right."

There's a little bit of red clinging to her lip, and I lean over to swipe it away with my thumb. She looks ashamed. "You're too good for this," I tell her. "Why did you wait so long?"

_Why did you never say anything?_

For a while, she makes no noise at all. Her heart monitor continues to rise and fall, steadily, slowly, sometimes less often, sometimes more. I can hear footsteps down the hall, a nurse doing a walk-through to be sure everything is all right.

Nothing is alright. How could it be, with the way things are now?

"You know that saying?" Lyra starts, and I have to move a little closer to even hear her.

"What? What saying?" I ask, feeling my eyes start to burn. But I don't blink, for fear that it will end the moment, and that she'll be gone by the time I open my eyes.

Her smooth, warm voice slides over the air, hushed like a secret. "Bend until you break?"

My heart twists.

Lyra continues, staring into the crook of her arm, still smattered with red. "I guess I just thought I'd give it a try."

* * *

**a/n** idk


	8. light screen

As soon as we wake up, the visitors begin to flow in. Lyra doesn't move much, because the aphasia is severe and she can't see well, but she insists on being treated normally. Not one of us can say no.

Red comes first. He doesn't speak for a long while, content to hear Lyra talk, both sitting on the small room's couch with their legs pulled to their chests. For the first time, I see that his hat is off, and Pikachu is curled up between them, ears pulled back. One of his paws rests on top of Lyra's hand.

When the Trainer makes his leave he touches her hand kindly, a familial gesture, leaning down to whisper something into her ear. When he pulls away, I see that Lyra has tears gathered in her eyes and she's nodding, smiling gently. They both send glances over to me that I act like I don't see, and exchange a quick hug. Then Red is out the door, into the midst of the cool October morning, through the winding hospital halls.

* * *

Father is second. He's a wreck, normally slicked hair a mess and dark eyes bloodshot. He clutches at Lyra's hands and sobs into her shoulder openly, and I find myself oddly unnerved.

I lead him to the waiting room downstairs when it's decided that we all need a break. He has realized to the fullest extent that this is the end. He grips my shoulders and looks down at me, voice hushed. "Why her?" My father's shoulders, ever broad and powerful, shake. "Of all people, why Lyra?" I don't have any words for him, so I just rub his back and hear him curse and cry.

* * *

After Father leaves, Blue and Green arrive. They both spend a long time in Lyra's room, the very image of normalcy. Nearly an hour and a half passes and Green steps down into the lobby, sitting on the couch beside me with a muted look on his face. He explains that Lyra wants to have a word with Blue in private. I turn my gaze to the ceiling and remember the day we won in the Dragon's Den, to pass the time.

When Blue trails in almost another hour later, the sky is dark and Green is pacing the room frantically. Blue's face is barren of tears, though her eyes are dark and hooded and she beckons me closer.

"Silver, she's dying and you're all she's thinking of." I hold back a choke and clench my fists. "She asked me to look after you. When she's gone, I mean. You'll need someone to make sure that you're okay."

I remain silent and nod — words escape me.

Blue nods tersely and sniffs, giving me a tight hug then dashing out into the chilling evening, Green right on her heels.

* * *

There are tears from the moment Gold bolts into Lyra's room. Not one of us says a word as he clings to her shoulders, pulling me in to sit at her other side. We three hold hands and look at pictures he's brought — of them, of us.

His shoulders hunch when we get to a photo of the three of us camping at the base of Mt. Silver, faces lit by a fire's glow and the heat of Typhlosion's back.

We share a glance and look at her profile. To him, she's an older sister, a lifetime companion. To me, she's a hero — a savior. We both love her with all our hearts.

The photos go on and on. He leaves four hours later, having to be helped down the stairs because he can't see through his swimming vision.

(I like that honest part of him. Lyra does, too.)

Under the eaves, he grabs my upper arms and supports himself as such, lips shaking, pulling me down to his eye level so that he doesn't have to strain his wavering voice.

"You're good to her. Keep doing that." His words break off and start up again, scratchy and hollow. "Please, Silver. Just keep being good. She wants it so much. She's worked so hard. For all of us."

"I know." I ignore that my own voice won't stop cracking and trembling. "I thought there was all the time in the world, Gold. I never thought there would be an end."

He barks out a short, injured laugh. "None of us ever do."

* * *

**a/n** it's like 10:40 pm what am I doing


	9. last resort

"So," I start, tapering off with a choke as Lyra coughs into the crook of her arm again. I can't hide my wince, though she dredges a smile from twitching cheeks and an elbow the shade of copper.

She's always been the stronger one.

"So." She wets her lips, folds her hands over her lap. It's the most cordial we've ever been.

It takes a while for me to look away from her jarring yellow-brown eyes. Her hair is a little gray.

Our gazes meet again and she gives me a small, tense smile. It reminds me of the little grins we shared across the battle stage — composed; strong. But this time, her eyes are terrified, and I can see in them that she isn't ready.

I don't think anyone would be.

My hands clench into fists at my sides. Her eyes catch them, ever watchful for my tells. "Today's the day, then."

Lyra heaves out a breath and it's so heavy with burden and pain that it's painful to hear. "Yep." She pops her lips on the P, and her voice shakes. Neither of us mention that her throat bobs and swells with every intake, and that the monitor's blips soar every time there are footsteps in the hallway.

Her fingers tremble. I step closer and take her hands in mine, rubbing her knuckles with my thumbs. I can feel her pulse on her wrists, sometimes sluggish, sometimes so quick I can hardly keep up. The screen doesn't do the real thing justice.

(Her heart has always been a little fickle.)

She lets her shoulders fall, forehead coming to rest on our joined hands in her lap. The IV drip rattles beside us, a nurse outside peering in to cast a pitying look and move on. I can feel the tears and warmth of her breath on my wrists, and see my own marking damp spots on the crown of her hair.

"This doesn't have to happen," I say, leaning down to press my cheek against the crown of her hair. "We can make it work, we can find the money —" but I cut myself off there, because her body wracks and shivers violently, and she doesn't need a broken record right now.

Lyra sits back up, looks a little dazed. Her face is lackluster from exhaustion, and she's so pale that the lights overhead seem to reflect off her skin. "What else is a girl to do when her work is done?" she asks. I have nothing more to say.

She laughs, but it's shriveled and sad and makes my toes curl. "I'm gonna puke my guts out." When she moves to wipe at the corner of her mouth again, I can see them — bruises, creeping up her arms and under her sleeves.

She looks like she's been mugged, or hit by a truck. I don't voice this, for fear of the answer — because this has to be worse.

* * *

**a/n** i'm garbage


	10. lariat

To waste time, Lyra fiddles with the sheets that lie limp over her unmoving legs, hair catching on her eyelashes when she ducks her chin to stare at them. They were the first part of her to go, collapsing entirely. They were the first part of the process to make her cry, quiet, angry tears of frustration and desperation that stick in the forefront of my mind still.

"I wanted to give you something."

I pause, hands stuttering on hers. "You don't have to."

Again, Lyra looks up at me, lips twisted into a rueful smile. "Not like I'll be around, now, will I?"

At that, I fall entirely silent. She recognizes the macabre tone to her words and worries her lip, glancing away and back a few times, contrite.

Her hands brush at the sheets absently, and she coughs to clear the hush that's fallen over us, reaching down toward the side of her cot hidden from the door's view.

Lye holds her hands out toward me just a bit further, brandishing the bag she's treasured for so many years with a thin — but genuine — smile on her lips. The Pokéballs that always rest within jostle slightly, eager to be released and see her. "Try it out," she urges, waiting till I have it firmly in my grasp to lean back against the pillows and place her hands in her lap again.

It nearly falls out of my hands. "No," I murmur, eyes wide, drawing it tight, close to my chest. "This — this is yours, I can't take it."

She's devastated in a quiet, shrunken way, mouth quirking down at the corners just the slightest bit, eyelids falling half-shut. "Why not?" The sheet hisses between her fingers, and I squeeze the worn fabric tight.

I pivot away and avoid her stare, trying to find a way to say what runs through my mind. _I can't — they're yours — your family. I can't let this be how it ends._ The thought makes me hesitate, and I can hear the heart monitor again, incessantly loud, despite the quietude of the room. _The end of Lyra._

"If I take them," I whisper, "you won't have a reason to stay."

Her expression softens, and she looks straight at me. "I have plenty of reasons to stay, Silver." Intently, she stares into my eyes, and I fight off a ragged, burning throat, shoulders aching. I want to remember this forever, the way she's so kind when the world has never been more cruel.

I bite my lower lip and take Lyra's hands again, leaving the bag and the beasts sitting between us, in the empty space on the cot. "I'd give you my heart if I could." My voice strangles off at the end, broken and as far from empty as it gets.

She smiles weakly — folds her hands in her lap, and stares at them, resigned. "You already have."

* * *

**a/n** lariat still counts as a move okay it's on one of Brock's Pokémons' cards from the TCG

also wow I finished a story for once claps


End file.
